COLUMN: It's Just a Country State of Mind: Finding the perfect Christmas tree

When I was growing up, my father had certain Christmas traditions that we followed every year. One tradition had to do with our Christmas tree. My dad believed in getting a real Christmas tree. It was quite an adventure to say the least, and I look back fondly on those days and smile.

We would go out and pick out our own live tree. Dad called these adventures, "The great Christmas tree hunts." We didn't go out to a tree farm, but dad had his own idea of places to find a tree and of course we always did it together as a family. My father had a friend who owned some land in the country that was full of Eastern Cedar trees. Every year, the owner allowed my father and the rest of us to go onto his property and pick out a tree to cut down for our Christmas tree.

There always seemed to be a method to my father's madness. My dad would get out his handsaw, grab some rope, then load our little family up in the car, and we would go for a grand adventure of finding the perfect Christmas tree. My dad had certain spots where he knew there were lots of trees that grew and where the nicest ones were. I can't tell you where that spot is now, but if I had to guess I would say it was out in the middle of nowhere.

My dad would lead his family (my mother, brother and myself) out into the wilderness, and we never left that place until we found what he considered to be the perfect tree. We would walk around a while, and it was usually snowing, which made the whole experience quite special for me. The snow would blanket the countryside, causing the effect of a winter wonderland as the woods laid silent before us. There was a quiet expectation among us, but no one dared say a word as we watched my father inspecting every tree on the planet. Finally, my dad would find the one he wanted. He had brought us along to help, but in the end it was always my dad's decision. He was sort of like a Christmas tree connoisseur. At least he thought so.

After he made the choice, he would get out his trusty saw and start working on getting the tree down and into the trunk of our car. The tree was always bigger than the trunk, thus the reason for bringing along the rope. He tied the trunk down so the tree wouldn't fall out. We would then make our way home where the prized tree would be placed in the middle of our living room, waiting to be adorned with decorations and lights. It just wasn't Christmas in our house until the tree was officially up.

Today, a lot of people use artificial trees. I am guilty of this myself. But sometimes the pull of tradition is strong, and I have a deep longing in my heart to experience a Christmas like I did as a child. My father is gone now, and I know you can't go back to that place in reality, but in small ways, in my memories, I can go back to the place in the wilderness where the Christmas trees grew. I can still revisit the silence of the woods.

I put my tree up the other night, and I don't know if anyone would consider it to be perfect. But I think if my dad was here to judge, he would think it was pretty nice. In fact, I think he would say that it was perfect. At least I'd like to think so.

Merry Christmas!
Susan